


Love is a Feedback Loop

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Forced Orgasm, I Didn't Give Permission For That, M/M, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Wait a Minute Who Snuck Feelings in Here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22920658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: Jaskier is a greedy brat and Geralt reacts accordingly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 82
Kudos: 2205





	Love is a Feedback Loop

**Author's Note:**

> A friend showed me the Witcher kinkmeme and lo, a herd of plot bunnies was born. This is one of them.

Before Geralt, Jaskier hated winter.

He hates the cold, always has. He gets cold even in summer, frankly. He shivers in a stiff breeze. Winter was the time to find a gracious noble or (as his career has taken off) royal host and spend the months entertaining the court with histories and cycles and songs about love and spring. He would stay there, and then when spring came (thank fuck) it was ball season, so he was busy running from this engagement to that, and then summer was for weddings.

Now, though, Jaskier has to admit, winter has its perks.

Because after Geralt, with winter, he gets this: a roaring fire in the hearth, a pile of furs like a lovely soft warm nest, and Geralt’s warm body under him, over him, against him, inside him.

Kaer Morhen’s in the north, so it’s terribly cold, even colder than Jaskier is used to. During the day, while Geralt uses Eskel and Lambert to help train Ciri, Jaskier wraps himself in one of Geralt’s cloaks and sits in front of the fire in the hall, working on songs, and even then he shivers. But in the night... 

And the nights come early, and they are long, and there’s nothing to do during them. Ciri will often stay up late with Yennefer, learning magic as their candles burn, and Jaskier suspects Vesemir stays up late doing his own paperwork (or whatever else it is Vesemir gets up to). Sometimes, the Witchers will stay up for a bit after dinner, sitting around the fire in the great hall and talking in low voices.

But mostly it’s just the two of them, tangled up and intertwined like snakes, until Jaskier can’t quite tell where he ends and Geralt begins.

It’s perfect.

They’re tangled up like that now, and Jaskier’s feeling rather greedy, on top of Geralt and burying a hand in the soft silk of Geralt’s hair, another hand digging into the furs by Geralt’s shoulder as he rides him. He’s panting, sweat sliding down his back, and he can feel Geralt inside of him all the way up to his very throat.

Geralt’s moving slowly, grinding really, the head of his cock dragging against that gods-damn spot that makes Jaskier see stars, steals the songs from his mouth. His hands move of their own accord, nails digging into Geralt’s chest, scratching like a cat as his back arches.

“Greedy.” Geralt doesn’t speak much, no matter what the situation, but Jaskier swears that each thing he says when they’re like this together is specifically calculated to break him and turn him into a mess.

“It’s your fault,” Jaskier snaps back. _Gods_ , it feels so fucking good but it’s not enough, he needs Geralt to speed the fuck up. A whine works its way out from between his clenched teeth. “I know you have that rather annoying stamina but some of us would like to be able to come sometime before the snow melts, if it’s not too much trouble.”

He shoves himself down, hard, onto Geralt’s cock, and Geralt’s hands flex dangerously around his hips, and it’s all the warning he gets before Geralt’s planting his feet and thrusting up into him, and Jaskier _yelps_ , nearly falling over. Geralt might be a fucking tease but when he stops playing around, Jaskier’s nothing but a rag doll in his hands, and Jaskier fucking _loves_ it (and Geralt knows it, the bastard, because Jaskier’s shit at hiding it). Geralt has that fantastic look on his face, the one that probably vaguely scares everyone else, the one that’s pure concentration. Jaskier’s seen him look at monsters with that expression on his face. But right now it means that Geralt’s putting everything into fucking Jaskier as hard as he possibly can, and so that look sends delightful shivers up Jaskier’s spine, like flames licking at him from the inside.

He digs his nails in, and he knows it would hurt any other lover, but he doesn’t have to be careful with Geralt, because Geralt can take it, Geralt _likes_ when he’s rough, when he lets himself be a bit feral. It’s that spot, over and over, and Geralt’s buried in him completely every time, just so fucking deep Jaskier’s almost choking, but he never wants to breathe again, fuck, yes, like _that_ , and his orgasm gets punched out of him harder than any actual hit he’s ever taken.

With a smooth and practiced move (Jaskier knows it’s practiced because Geralt has practiced it on him), Geralt flips them over so that now Jaskier is the one on his back. The thrill Jaskier always gets at that is twofold: one part from the manhandling (yeah, Geralt can lift him one handed, what of it?) and one part from the fact that he knows Geralt hasn’t done this with anyone else, that Geralt didn’t trust anyone else to not be scared when he did. Geralt’s… careful, with the other people he’s bedded. Jaskier knows, they talked about it, once or twice before they became… what they are now. It wasn’t so much fear of hurting the other person, Geralt’s too in control of his strength for that. It was more the fear that the other person would be scared, would think the Witcher would harm them, if he didn’t ask permission for his every movement.

Asking permission’s nice and all. Jaskier’s found that begging for consent, whether he’s the one doing the begging or the one coaxing the begging out of his partner, is delicious. But he hates the idea that Geralt was scared, all this time, of being rejected. Never able to let his guard down, not even here, in this most intimate of spaces.

So every time Geralt just… _grabs_ him and moves him, Jaskier feels a bubble of fierce, hot pride.

Right now, however, the smirk on Geralt’s face promises him nothing but trouble. 

“Just how much would be enough for you?” Geralt says, almost musing, as if he’s speaking to himself. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s cock, still hard and hot inside of him, and he twists his hips even though it makes him whimper a bit, still overly sensitive. Geralt strokes up and down his sides, head cocked, watching him through those golden cat eyes. “How much before you’re finally satisfied?”

Jaskier knows exactly what Geralt’s got in mind, but it’s winter. The nights are long and cold and dark. There’s nothing to do except this, to slide slick against each other, intertwined, learning and seeking. And he wants, oh how he wants his Witcher, now and always and forever.

 _I’ll never have enough_. That’s the truth of it. He’ll never be satisfied. He’s greedy, very much so. Always has been. No lover was enough, his heart feasting on one for a week before moving onto another, and it’s only with Geralt that he’s found a proper meal for it, found someone whom he can love and love and love and never be satisfied, never want to move on.

His body’s going to regret this in, oh, about an hour or so, but fuck it. Jaskier lifts his chin up, daring, bold, reckless. “Why don’t you find out, White Wolf?”

Geralt growls exactly like his namesake and seals his mouth over Jaskier’s, driving his hips in far, far too soon. Jaskier yelps, which only gives Geralt the opportunity to slide his tongue into his mouth, the bastard. It’s not the slow, deep pace of before but harsh and shallow, and ridiculous _uh, uh, uh_ noises are being punched out of him with every snap of Geralt’s hips. Jaskier’s vocal, he knows this, and Geralt will never say it out loud but he likes it, oh he _likes_ it, because if he didn’t, well, he wouldn’t fuck Jaskier at precisely the right angle to make Jaskier moan, now would he?

Besides, Geralt’s rather adept at finding ways to stifle Jaskier’s cries by now, if he truly felt like it.

It takes a minute, and yet, it feels like no time at all, before he’s hard again. It’s too much, it almost hurts, and then it’s not enough again, and it feels so, so good, Geralt always makes it feel so good, _so_ good…

Geralt will never admit to it (the bastard won’t admit to a lot of things), but fortunately, Jaskier’s good at reading him, and Jaskier knows, he _knows_ that Geralt’s driven just a teensy bit crazy by the smell of Jaskier coming, by the overwhelming musk from when they fuck. So Jaskier… well. He rubs himself shamelessly up against Geralt, arches his back, smearing the mess on his stomach onto Geralt.

The _growl_ that Geralt lets out in response goes straight to Jaskier’s cock and he moans shamelessly, overstimulated, feeling flayed alive only with pleasure—and Geralt _bites_ him, hard, right where his shoulder and neck meet, like he’s _marking_ him or something and Jaskier comes a second time, nails striping up Geralt’s back.

Geralt doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate. It’s like he hasn’t registered that Jaskier’s even come, and oh, _oh_ , Jaskier’s well aware how much trouble he’s in for. Time melts away into a blur, one of pleading and begging, hands and lips and teeth, as Geralt fucks into him and he ruts against Geralt like an animal, fire exploding in his blood again and again. His voice grows hoarse with begging, with chanting Geralt’s name, with swearing, and their bodies become so slick with sweat that he has trouble holding on at times.

He loses track of how many times he’s come. It’s yanked out of him, pushed out, _dragged_ out with claws raking down his spine, _through_ his spine, or so it feels like, snatched out of him with a well-timed kiss and _just_ the right angle on a thrust. Geralt is relentless, never once letting up, his cock feeling like it’s splitting Jaskier in half which is just the way Jaskier fucking likes it. And he might (might) have tears that leak out of the corners of his eyes at one point because it is so much, ghosting along the edges of too much like a wraith skirting the edges of a circle of silver, but it never spills over into full pain. Geralt makes sure of that. He gently brushes away the tears with his thumb and kisses Jaskier’s sobs and pleas away until Jaskier is a quivering, whimpering wreck. He’s fucked on all fours, in Geralt’s lap with his arms tight around Geralt’s neck, kissing him into oblivion, he’s fucked with his thighs held open so that he can’t even move and he can only stare, dumbfounded, at the sight of Geralt’s cock disappearing into him, filling him over and over as his own come slides down between his legs, making a mess of it all and serving to slick the way.

Even with all that, it’s still not quite enough, not yet. He still begs for more, _again, more, Geralt, oh please, gods, more,_ and Geralt fucking gives it to him, never quits or backs down, until Jaskier can’t even speak to beg anymore and his throat clicks dryly where it was once screaming. His body moves of its own accord, scratching and flailing, jerking, spasming, his eyes rolling back into his head, and he wouldn’t call it sexy, himself, but it’s done with abandon, nothing but naked _need_ in it, and that must be enough for Geralt because Geralt looks positively feral with pleasure, eyes practically glowing with satisfaction, the movement of his hips unending.

It feels like hours later that he’s on his side, Geralt’s arm snug around his waist, his hands slowly, tenderly stroking up and down his chest. Geralt’s nosing at his undoubtedly deeply bruised neck, and Jaskier thinks he might actually go completely insane. The whole world’s gone syrupy, thick and sweet. His vision’s blurred. He’s not sure if he’s even hard anymore, but he must be, right? Otherwise Geralt would’ve stopped, and he hasn’t, he’s fucking Jaskier slow and soft like they’ve got all the time in the world.

A moan makes its way out of his throat without his permission, and Geralt kisses his throat in response. Jaskier claws his way up to grip Geralt’s hair again, keeping him there, and Geralt licks at the hollow of his throat, at the tendon standing out in his neck, obliging him. Fuck, his chest and stomach are a mess of his own drying spend, as if he needed evidence of the fact that Geralt’s reduced him to a sobbing wreck. He’s lost track of how many times he’s come, but it has to be at least a dozen, it must be a dozen, he’s completely run out, milked dry…

“It was four,” Geralt points out, sounding amused in that dry way of his. “But I’m flattered.”

Jaskier hadn’t even realized he was speaking out loud. He sinks completely back against Geralt’s chest, rocking his body lazily in response to the slow but thorough fucking he’s being given. Geralt’s barely pulling out at all, just staying inside of him, rotating his hips in hot little grinds that pull obscene noises out of both their throats. It’s a hell of a vocal workout, his voice is going to be shot tomorrow.

“My little lark,” Geralt rumbles, his teeth fixing around Jaskier’s ear, and Jaskier shivers all over again. Geralt is not one for words in general, and certainly not for pet names. This particular name only comes out either in the most dire of circumstances like when Jaskier thinks he’s dying (again) or when they’re like this. When all the world is stripped away, and it’s as if only the two of them exist, and their only purpose is for this.

He can’t possibly do it again, not after he’s been thoroughly, roughly fucked over and over, but Geralt is nuzzling him, oozing satisfaction, his hands roaming all over and he doesn’t _say_ anything but Jaskier can _feel_ him and he does want to please Geralt, he wants to please him and be praised and petted and so he tries, he does, he really does—

Geralt wraps his hand around Jaskier’s cock, his palm already slick, either with oil or Jaskier’s own come, and strokes him from base to tip, slow and tight and sure. Jaskier feels like his bones have melted, like he’s metal and Geralt’s the blacksmith, turning him into something new, molding him with each thrust. It’s all so good, and he says it, no matter how dry his throat is he wants Geralt to _know_ that, Geralt makes him feel _good_ , he’s ruined for anyone else, Geralt is so good to him—and it’s words that will embarrass Geralt, should they be said anywhere else. But it’s not anywhere else. It’s here. Just them.

“One more,” Geralt coaxes, his voice like gravel, scraped up from the bottom of his throat, and Jaskier whines pitifully, his body seizing up as Geralt increases his strokes. He wants to thrust into it, but it’s too much, and he also wants to squirm away at the same time, and so instead he finds himself caught in the middle, frozen, full of agony and ecstasy as he comes a final time with a soundless scream.

Geralt rolls him over onto his stomach, presses him down into the furs, and ruts into him viciously, teeth fixed at the back of his neck (it’s a good thing winter gives him an excuse to wear high collars or he’d never hear the end of it from the others) as his stamina at last snaps and he spills, hot and thick, making Jaskier moan brokenly.

For a blessed moment, there’s nothing, his mind blank and buzzing, pleasure coursing through him, his body completely relaxed, the soft furs beneath him and Geralt’s warm, heavy body on top of him.

Geralt rolls over to the side and Jaskier manages to follow, flopping uselessly onto him. Geralt’s looking at him with this fond expression, the tiniest of smiles curling up the corner of his mouth. “You’re quiet,” he says, like it’s a miracle.

Jaskier drudges up enough energy to slur, “Fuck you.”

“You did that already.”

The fire has banked low in the hearth, but it’s still wonderfully warm in the room. There’s nothing to do now but sleep, and then fuck again, and sleep some more, and fuck again, and then spend a few hours composing (and perhaps, persuading Ciri to start a snowball fight), have dinner with everyone, and start the fucking and sleeping all over again. It’s fantastic.

Nobody else has fucked his mind into blankness like this, Jaskier thinks, drowsily, and suddenly it’s imperative that Geralt know this.

He pokes him. “Geralt?”

Witcher stamina has two downsides. The first is that Geralt is (or was, because Jaskier can keep up with him, _thank_ you) rarely satisfied with people he beds, because he’ll still want to go and they’re long finished.

The second is that when he is finally finished, he has a habit of dropping right to sleep. And that, right now, simply will not do.

Jaskier pokes Geralt again. “Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier nuzzles him, since he knows that’ll get to him. Geralt, the secret softie, loves the nuzzling. He loves doing things like burying his face in Jaskier’s neck while Jaskier combs his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “You know… you’re not the only one who had trouble finding people who could keep up.”

Geralt’s eyes open, but his only response other than that is another, “Hmm.”

“I mean…” Jaskier strokes his fingers through the hair on Geralt’s chest, palm pressed down to feel his slow, steady heartbeat. “They would all… fizzle out. I was always greedy. Wanting more.”

“If only they’d known the answer was to get you to come five times,” Geralt muses.

“You’re so romantic,” Jaskier replies, dryly, but he knows what Geralt is really saying. Geralt’s _embarrassed_. He will never, ever enjoy talking about his feelings and he will never enjoy talking out loud, or hearing out loud, about the affections that he and Jaskier share. But Jaskier wants him to know, damn it. And so he will hear it whether he wants to or not.

Jaskier slings his leg over Geralt’s waist, plasters himself to Geralt’s side, and feels Geralt tighten his arm around him, feels the deep, satisfied breath that Geralt takes in. “You’re the only one who matched me.”

Geralt has so much to give. Look at what he gave just now. He gives so _much_ , and nobody’s ever appreciated it. Not even Yennefer, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, who readily accepted Ciri and magic and everything else but fought tooth and claw against Geralt’s love when Geralt offered it. But Jaskier does. And he wants Geralt to know that, he wants Geralt to never doubt that Jaskier wants it, will take it, and that he will give it back.

He doesn’t get a verbal response. He wasn’t expecting one. But he does get Geralt heaving himself up (despite how exhausted the man must be), and going to fetch a rag and water, and cleaning him up. And he does get Geralt dragging him back in close, and tossing one of the furs over the both of them. And he _did_ just get five very lovely orgasms, so. That’s response enough for him. Because he knows, nobody'd ever matched Geralt either.

The fire is warm, the furs are soft, he's _thoroughly_ fucked out by his massive, gorgeous Witcher, and said Witcher is currently petting him and acting as a bed warmer. Mmm, yes, winter _does_ have its perks.


End file.
